About

Friday, August 29, 2014

Every once in a while I talk about cutting 60,000 words from
a manuscript I wrote sometime back. I rarely discuss actual content, but
something happened to me within the last few months that confirmed for me a
thematic element I had a slight belief I was bullshitting. Recently I found this
untrue; not only did I truly trust this philosophy, I had experienced it time
and time again. In order for you to make sense out of it, I guess I need to start
with the theme itself.

Let me explain in the least convoluted manner I can:

I’m a very logical writer. That doesn’t mean I organize or
write anything down, but I do tend to get most of my ideas from, “If I want
this to be true, then this must be
true first.”

I also really like proper plot structure. Mostly because I’m
lazy enough to want arbitrary rules instead of actually thinking, and spiteful
enough for guidelines for me to appropriately screw with them.

I am usually fairly conscious of whatever “theme” I have
going on. It helps answer questions for me, like, “How should this end?” (Well,
if my point is “Cats rock,” the cat needs to tear the villain’s face off.
Clearly.)

So the monster-of-a-novel started with some vague notion
about fear—I don’t bother to be too specific early on.

So... that being said, it might not surprise you that I
wasn’t really sure of what the plot was for… oh… forty pages. But hey! Captain
Criticism! You could say that it was
because of this floundering about that made me capable of cutting out a third
of the novel.

(You could also say that it was because of this floundering
that I needed to cut out a third of
the novel, but I guarantee I won’t be listening at that point.)

In any case, per my own process, to determine what
plot-based conflict was appropriate, I looked back to what my point was. My
point was… something about fear. Thrilling. So that’s when I know I need to be
more specific.

But there was one thing I know about fear, having
experienced it in far too much abundance; whenever you stick out your chest,
suck it up, and barrel forward, you get slapped in the face by whatever you
were afraid of. I mean, I don’t care how unlikely it is, you’re irrationally
afraid of something happening? The moment you try to overcome it, that shit
will happen.

Afraid of shop clerks being assholes? Well, sure, you know
that it’s unlikely—it’s their job to
be nice to you. So you overcome that bone-crippling shyness, go to their
counter and… BAM. In the most ridiculous turn of events he spins around
screams, “FUCK YOU.”

I’m not even kidding.

Okay. I’m kind of kidding. I’m exaggerating anyway. But it
happens. Whenever you manage to face your fears, you end up facing exactly what
you were afraid. And you’re surprised. You knew you were being ridiculous… you
managed to talk yourself into getting on the plane because it was so unlikely
that it was going to crash. So when you happen to have booked the most hectic,
back-assward flight anyone has ever seen, with the plane’s take-off delayed
because there’s a “crack in the engine,” then horrible turbulence, then a
white-out that forces you to go back to Denver, and you just have to go, “What
the goddamn hell?”

Because not only are you back at square one. It’s worse.
Before you had some solace in thinking you were crazy. If you could just face
your fears… just once, you would be able to realize how ridiculous it was. But,
as it turns out, it wasn’t that ridiculous after all. Maybe you still shouldn’t
care, but you suddenly realize there are
things to be afraid of.

I knew what conflict and stakes would take place in my book.
The character—a brainwashed young girl from a religious cult ventures out into
a dried-husk of a barren planet—is terrified of the unknown and leaving her
comfort zone. The book, in the beginning, gives a sense that the narrator
disagrees with her, that she is, in fact, “just wrong.” Those who’ve read it
consistently assume her paranoia is just paranoia, that her religion is
incorrect, and the exiles are actually the good people. By the point that the
protagonist starts to grow comfortable and enjoy the beauty of the world, the
readers are like, “Good, girl! It’s not so bad, is it?”

Then BAM.

The readers’ shock at her fears happening made a pivotal
point in the story possible. When the audience sees her fear isn’t so ridiculous, it is possible, then it makes them question
their assumption that the cult was wrong, and question whether or not Libra,
the protagonist, was wrong to believe in it. Throughout the first half of the
story, no one likes a man name John—they know his intentions were bad from the
start, they knew he was completely capable of hurting the protagonist—the
readers just never believed he actually would
hurt her. And neither did she.

And that, right there,
is my point about fear.

But in all irony, as much as I knew there was the
possibility of this philosophy being true—that when you face your fears, you’re
opening yourself up to experiencing the worst—I guess I didn’t really believe
it. So I a few months ago I opened myself up to my biggest fear. I took a risk,
I tried to trust someone, to stop being so paranoid, anti-commitment, and shy,
and I immediately found my expectations were abruptly met.

This isn’t about writing, but it could be. I don’t focus on
querying, I don’t focus on self-promotion, I don’t put myself out there… for
anything. I am so afraid with being honest with what I want that I stay cooped
up where it’s safe. But then, one day, I get sick of it. I get sick of being
defensive and having walls up and I stand up and say, “I’m going for what I
want!”

And BAM.

The truth is I have always been afraid of my emotions. I
have always been afraid of revealing what I want, asking for what I need, or depending
on others. I have also always believed this was ridiculous, and that the pain
of being afraid was far worse than the pain of embarrassment or disappointment.

I was able to open up because I just had no idea how much
pain I could be in.

Point is, a story reveals the author’s deep down beliefs, no
matter how little he realizes it or even believes it. Nothing says more about
you than what you write. Sometimes, it’s important to pay attention. It doesn’t
mean that it can change anything, but maybe it’ll take away some of the shock.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Periodically, my college sends me letters asking me for
money. One especially fine day, I received a picture of a beautiful girl with a
sob story explaining how my donation could pay for her schooling.

Here was my response:

Dear University of La Verne,

I address this to the entire university, and not just one
person, because, having experienced the school system myself, I know that not
one person has any control or idea what anyone else is doing.

You have been sending me pleas for money for quite some time
now. Keeping in mind that I owe 80,000 dollars to pay for your school which I
have just recently graduated from, I cannot believe that you find your dear
“Alexis” story convincing to me in the least. She doesn’t have to pay for her schooling?
Good for her. I’m glad that she is getting some aid in this hard world. She
will need it. Especially with a degree from the University of La Verne.

Now, let me tell you a story about a young student, and how
the “positive atmosphere” and “quality, values-based education” led a girl to a
great depression during her stay at your school. We’ll call her Eliza, because,
close enough.

She is not me. In fact, I didn’t even like her all that
much. It’s not that I don’t have my own stories of your positive atmosphere; it’s just that I have enough of other’s to
really send it home that no, I am not just being bitter and biased (although
those are the feelings the rise whenever I get one of these obnoxious letters).
But I think that it goes to show, by the fact that I could be horrified by this
event and feel for someone that I personally would be happy to see move to
Zimbabwe, I wouldn’t wish your teaching methods on my worst enemy.

Once upon a time there was a young sophomore who had been
inspired by our beloved acting teacher to become a playwright and thespian. She
transferred from being an English major over to theatre and began the long hard
road of what I like to call, “Finding out your idols are there for a paycheck.”
She was particularly brash, blunt, and seemingly ignorant on most social cues.
I will not say that the theatre department had a particularly normal hierarchy—filled
with its sycophants and a great deal of students inflicted with a Peter Pan
complex (Much as I imagine your Alexis Wood from Rancho Cucamonga does.) The professors were only used to Yes Man and
avid Game Players. My fellow students at the time were not malicious. On the
contrary. I found them to be nice, friendly good people. They were open to all
sorts of ideas. Just never their own.

Little Eliza was not much different. She did try to follow
trends; she was a mimic. She took on the personality of whomever she nearest to
at the time. The problem was she didn’t fully understand the trait she
enveloped, meaning she lacked the most important part: charisma. When she was confident,
she was arrogant. When she was silly, she was obnoxious. When she and several
of her friends took to robbing Barnes and Nobles and leaving the merchandise in
the theatre, she was the only one completely baffled as to how she didn’t have
the right to do it.

Our professor didn’t like her. Many people didn’t. She had
this indignation about her whenever she was not allowed to behave a certain
way. Sort of like a three-year-old might. Hence the Peter Pan issue.

There was a class she loved to take. It was called Theatre
and the Community, which, I’ll admit, was a fascinating concept. Except Mr.
I-Don’t-Like-Conflict never forced the students to meet the requirements he set
for them.

The idea was that they’d find a group of people they feel
sorry for—excuse me, are “concerned about,” and write a play about them.

The shows often proceeded to be 20 minute diatribes on how
their own lives sucked.

Well, you have to give a point for honesty. I’d feel sorry
for myself if I were them too.

In any case, it was her second or third time around. She had
picked a subject that had, amazingly enough, not been about her, but instead
was about the gay population. Keeping in mind that our professor is gay and
hates her, we can start to see the beginning of the downward spiral.

The showcase was a whole bunch of made-up “No, it really
happened” stories with a tone of, “This kind of sounds about how it would be.”
They were varied in quality. Some of them I very much enjoyed. Others I was got
cramps from cringing too long.

But in the middle of the creating process process, Eliza had
her script promoting gay acceptance. I had read the play, par her request, and
I would judge it to be what you might expect from an unpublished writing
student. Fine, not fantastic. Obviously not edited, but with some merit. It was
not the worst script up there.

Yet our dearly beloved professor took it from her, without
telling her, gave it to a fellow student whom he adored but who had absolutely
zero writing experience, and told him to “fix” it. This student took the script
and proceeded to steal ideas from the internet.

Anyone remember that post about “retaining the sanctity of
marriage like Brittany Spears’s 24 hour Vegas jaunt?” I do. And so did he.

Now you might think, and the end of this whole tirade, that
that became anticlimactic. I don’t think I pressed it enough. Our teacher, who
this student looked up to, took away her script without her permission to
punish her for being obnoxious, then gave it to someone else with absolutely no
experience to change it. And surprise, surprise. He made it worse. Okay,
subjectivity, fine. But plagiarism is pretty cut and dried.

You think I can’t prove he wasn’t doing that to hurt her.
Then why was hers the only script to do so? He had people making up off the top
of their heads what it felt like to be homeless, introducing weird gimmicks
like rubrix cubes to make it “artsy,” spewing out pure gibberish, and just
having poor dialogue, and yet hers, which showed some true experienced ability,
was the one that was too terrible to be on stage “like that.”

I did learn some lessons from La Verne, however. I learned
that the people who are demoralizing you are demoralizing everyone. That
professor who is telling you you’ll never amount to anything? He’s saying the
exact same thing to everyone else. And you’re lucky if you’re a white male, because
he’ll have to get creative. He can’t just depend on you “being too dark,” to
prove that you’ll never be an actor. He’ll have to tell you you’re “too fat,”
or even “blonde” because “blonde hair doesn’t light as well.”

The worst was not for me. For those who can question
authority, we could get out of it. We could consider just how truthful this
was, and just how much we cared. Of course, we were outcastes in the cultish
nature of the department, but at least we could overcome the demoralization and
continue on.

No, the worst part was seeing my friends. People who I
thought were talented, who I knew if they put some effort into their work could
do great things, were being so completely convinced by these faculty members
that they’d just give up. They believed these professors because they looked up
to them.

Let me tell you one thing about your “positive atmosphere.”
It is a black, bleak, sludge-like atmosphere in which students are in
competition with their professors, in which the child-like ways you treat the
students—the babying, the pandering, the installation of fear—only fuels their
insecurities. You should not have tour guides saying things like, “We have a
month-long exchange program for people like me who can’t bear to be away from
my family for a long period of time.”

You’re supposed to be giving them courage, bravery, the
willingness to explore the world, to tear off the umbilical cord and enter life
brazen. Not try to remain in high school for as long as possible. They’re not children
anymore, and you need to convince them of that. So your last letter about your
new program to pander to their inability to make decisions didn’t impress me
either. In fact, I thought it was the exact opposite of the direction you
should go.

Do you know how many times I’ve been told, “You’re not ready
yet,” in that school? That’s something we tell ourselves. That’s the excuse we
tell ourselves. That’s the excuse that prevents us from chasing our dreams. And
I got to say, it’s a bad one. You’ll never be ready if you’re waiting until
you’re ready. You need experience to improve. You need to do it in order to do
it.

And when I asked Honorable Teacher why he cared if students
would fail, he always said, “Because they’ll be upset.”

They’ll throw a tantrum? Really? Is that your job? To
prevent them from climbing trees on the off
chance they’ll fall? No. Let me do my work so you can do yours. I may not
be ready yet, but you know how you learn? By trying.

Let me leave you with what your “positive atmosphere” did
for me. I wrote every day since I was twelve. Then I went to your school, and
it. Just. Stopped.

It was not because your curriculum was “so hard.” You know
that. You know that your classes are the same classes we took in high school,
or are something that the teachers just made up. You know that the only way to
fail was to not show up. You know that the workload at the university is less
than what most middle schools see in a day. You know that you are not
challenging at all.

I was demoralized. I was depressed, and I was constantly
fighting. Sure, my high school teachers had little respect for my abilities,
but they didn’t actively try to prevent me from doing what I wanted. They
thought the shows I produced there would fail, but they let me do it. And guess
what? I overcame their expectations.

When I went to college, however, every time I managed to
weasel my way into doing a project I wanted to do, I was met with derision. The
best thing I ever got from my teachers was a, “That was cute.” I mostly found,
however, them bad mouthing me to other students, trying to convince them that going
off on your own and doing your own projects was the work of the devil.

And yet, whenever a potential freshman came in, asking if
they could do their own shows, the faculty would smile and point to me, saying,
“Sure, she is.”

After graduating, however, I had a dauntless task of trying
to bring back the passion. I believed, for a long time, that writing was hard,
that it couldn’t be fun. But then, after a year of being in my hometown,
working in my theatre, and watching my fellow coworkers, all of whom are at
least 10 years older than me, be excited about new projects and opportunities I
am introducing to them, I remember that art is supposed to be enjoyable, and,
when you are surrounded by people who actually like it, it will be.

This year, I’ve started writing again, just as much as
before. Nothing has changed about my life or who I am, except for where I am,
who is around me, and the “atmosphere” therein.

Please do not ask me for any more money. Your letters sting
me each time I get them, bringing back terrible memories of active
demoralization. I will never give the University of La Verne a dime. If I ever
make a fortune, I would, perhaps, offer you a good chunk of it, but only if you
were to install a 20 foot high plague stating, “This is where dreams go to
die.”

If you do decide to not remove me from whatever list you
have, or if, as I suspect, someone else also out of the loop deals with your
next embarrassing ploy to gouge its alumni, I will just proceed to send another
letter in your SASE of the same tone.

I apologize, because I know that you, my reader, have
absolutely no say in what happened to me, or, in reality, to yourself there.
But I thought I needed to make myself perfectly clear in that the University of
La Verne is a past experience that I would like to remain in the past.

Friday, August 15, 2014

So, I might just be the worst reader in the world. In fact,
I like to think I am because it gives me a sense of importance. Many times
people ask me to read their work and give them feedback, and I tell them, “I
will read this as I am, not as I should be.”

Skimmers can often be excellent readers to have—they tend to
give more benefit of the doubt, hear what you mean to say over what you
actually said, and like to fill in the blanks. They can also be a pain in the
ass because they aren’t actually paying all that much attention, they’re the
first people to zone out in a lengthy description, and they love making
unpredictable assumptions.

While an author has every right in the world to ignore this
type of reader in favor of people who are actually, I don’t know, careful,
there are a couple of things he can consider when working with the bastards.

1) We always hear the
first sentence in a paragraph and often skip the last.

If the information is imperative and people are missing it,
put it in the first sentence in the paragraph. That is the only one a skimmer
is guaranteed not to skip. Skipping patterns can change sporadically. Sometimes
the reader will read the first sentence, ignore the second, read the third,
ignore, and so on and so forth. Sometimes she’ll read the first two and then
ignore the middle bit. Sometimes she starts skimming due to content rather than
placement, and sometimes she will skip whole paragraphs together. But, in any
of these cases, the skimmer knows a paragraph break always indicates an
important change. It says, “We are now talking about something else.” Even if
it’s still very related, there’s a reason the paragraph is there.

So if readers keep missing something important, consider
where the info actually is in the paragraph. By moving it front and center—by
that I mean, “front”—it’s very unlikely they’ll skip over it. Although, if they
actually understand it, however, is a different matter.

This is why a lot of people suggest having short paragraphs.
If you have twelve sentences in two paragraphs, a skimmer might read six. (Half
of each paragraph, one-fourth the whole thing). If you have twelve sentences in
four paragraphs a skimmer is more likely to read eight (the first sentence plus
one more, two-thirds the whole thing.) It is unlikely that a person will read
only one sentence in a paragraph before feeling confident they’ve gotten enough
information, so if there’s only two or three…

On the other hand, there are certain places where a reader
is much more likely to skip. One is in the middle of a long paragraph, but then
which sentences specifically have to do with content. The most commonly skipped
sentence is the very last one because the reader knows something interesting
will probably happen in the first sentence of the next paragraph, and so jumps
the gun and goes straight to it.

Skimmers don’t always skip the end, but by the end most
skimmers think they “got it” by that point and have moved on.

2) We catch on to
patterns and concepts quicker, but are more likely to not notice abrupt changes
or contractions to our assumptions.

This issue of “getting it” is a big one. This is why smart
kids can be such pains in the asses, and often why they look like colossal
idiots. Once people get it, they have a hard time listening, and if you’re
quick on the uptake, then you have to wait around for others to have it
explained to them, which makes you zone out. This is true in reading, although
the reader will just skim worse instead of waiting.

For example:

Susie stepped out on
stage, her golden dress clung to her curves, rhinestones glinting in the light.
Her glossy blonde hair fell over her shoulders, her shoes click-clacking on the
floor…

Translation: She’s beautiful. Got it.

The rest of the paragraph continues on to explain the unique
ways in which Susie was beautiful, but honestly, we got it from “curves.” I’d
probably read the next sentence to make sure that’s what this paragraph will be
about, but for the most part, I’m going to gloss over the rest to see if
anything weird pops out and be done with it.

Skimmers can be skimmers because they can catch on to your
gist very quickly, and often don’t care what the actual image is. Blonde,
beautiful, probably an actress, they are great at picking up small bits of
information and putting it together fast, so they don’t see a reason to gather
any more details after they think they’ve figure it out.

Which means that if the paragraph shifts points, or even goes so far as to
contradict its earlier implications, the skimmer is likely not to notice. If
you explain for five sentences that she’s beautiful, then point out she has a dagger up her sleeve, there’s a good
chance that’s why I have no idea where the dagger came from in the next
paragraph.

What does this mean for you? Only if there’s a problem
you’re looking to solve. Are readers missing something important? Do they tell
you they’re confused about something you’re perfectly clear about? Look at the
sentences before it and see if maybe you’re explaining things they would
assume, which is a good reason why they might be tuning out.

3) Variation,
variation, variation.

The key to drawing a reader’s eye is variation.

One short sentence in a lot of long ones.

One long paragraph in a lot of short ones.

A weird sentence structure.

A weird word choice.

Comedy in the middle of drama.

A weird object.

A weird fixation on an everyday object.

Telling me things I don’t expect to hear.

The key to grabbing the skimmer’s attention is to do
something they don’t expect. It still needs to fit, and not be so noticeable to
be jar us completely from immersion, but skimmers constantly look for something
unusual. This is exactly why I appreciate clever word choice.

Conjunctions: Pretty much anything else, or, when it doubt,
just assume it is. (Yes, that’s the technical definition. Quit asking.)

When writing for the skimmer, remember that your verbs are
the most important part of the sentence. That’s the one thing the skimmer is guaranteed
to get his information from. Adverbs change the cadence and the point of the
sentence. Skimmers are likely to notice them, but if they contradict the skimmer’s assumption, the skimmers are
also likely to be jarred. So, an adverb should either enhance the verb in a
non-noticeable manner, or be the most important part of the sentence, making
sense why it has all the attention drawn to it.

Put most of your atmosphere, tone, and language in the nouns
and verbs, because that’s what the skimmer will remember most.

A cat walked down the alley.

A feline crept through the shadows.

If the atmosphere is in the adjectives they will be less
likely to notice the nuance, and if it’s in the adverbs, it will sound like you’re
insisting it’s true rather than proving it.

5) I have no idea
what your characters’ names are.

Characters’ names, things’ names, big words, anything I
don’t recognize, I skip over and just keep going. This means that no, I
probably won’t remember who Jimmy is sixteen pages later, I have no idea how to
pronounce K’aftken out loud (even Ada probably), and if you explain to me what
HRM stands for, I still won’t know what HRM stands for a paragraph later.

The good news is I won’t be as tripped up by not knowing
things, and I’ll give you ample time to clarify it for me. I am far more likely
and willing to figure things out for myself before I’ll admit to being
confused. But it also means that you might have to redescribe someone by a
characteristic other than just his name, and you might want to refrain from any
acronyms if you can help it, and always name your characters something
interesting with different first letters.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

When my friend returned from his mission (you know, that
Mormon thing where they dress like accountants and learn how to say “Hello, my
name is Elder Price and I would like to share with you the most amazing book,”
in four different languages), we hadn’t heard a word from each other in over
two years. He had, of course, sent his emails but punctuation. Seriously, man, I’ll read about your life when it
involves periods. And, no, that’s not a feminism thing.

Of course, when I picked him up and we sat in the car for
the first time together, we realized we had absolutely
nothing to talk about. So the first thing my companion did was bring up the
past. Actually the first thing he did was tell me I looked good then looked at
me expectantly until I got it.

“Oh. You look good
too.”

It was about a 20 minute silence.

But the past came up and we started chatting about memories
I’d long repressed. We were much nicer to each other that first day back than
we had ever been in our entire relationship, and only a few passive-aggressive
quips were made. Sentimentalism I guess. Somehow we got onto the topic of admiration,
in which my friend told me, “I love how you never care what other people
thought of you.”

And I just laughed and laughed and laughed.

The truth was, I didn’t. I had a blind confidence in myself
that, to me, proves ignorance is bliss. I was far more obnoxious, alienated
myself more, but really did what I wanted. And I remember being happy. I
remember actually sitting there thinking, “I can’t believe I feel this happy.”

I met conflict indignantly. Someone told me I was incapable
of doing something, I proved them wrong. I was far better at making friends,
much more productive, and could bulldoze even the toughest of teachers.

Too bad I was producing crap.

See, the problem with not giving a shit about what other
people think is you don’t keep up appearances. I could see no merit in playing
the game, and so would often turn in scribbled out paintings to contests, then
feel like the reason I got third place was because I was “too weird” for those
damn traditionalists.

College changed everything. I became more aware of the
people around me, I became far more aware of how respect comes from
appearances, and I realized how “quality” sometimes is just about playing the
rules.

Of course the questions became which ones.

I lost my confidence, my certainty in my knowledge. My black
and white mentality drained away, and I was left with questioning everything,
all the time.

Plus, we had the added benefit of me realizing that I was an
irrationally shy person.

Apparently when you grow up in a small town, you can be
completely unaware that you hate strangers.

My confidence disappeared. It’s not that I didn’t see value
in myself—on the contrary, I can be quite the narcissist—It was that I didn’t
know how to portray my real self to others. There was so much room for misinterpretation
(often which people did deliberately), so much room to show a small, less
appealing side of myself at an imperative moment, that I shut down. I was
getting sick of fighting, I was getting sick of putting in all this energy to
create plays, books, art, and everything else I worked day and night on, just
to have some stranger stand in my way because I accidentally said the wrong
thing in front of him a year ago. And, as ridiculous as it sounds, that shit
happened.

I developed my fear. It was all encompassing, exhausting to
overcome, and every time I tried, I
got little to no reward. It was—is—so much easier to just avoid the
confrontation. I tucked away, started to only work on independent projects—things
I never needed to depend on anyone else for, because, honestly, so many people
would bail—and began to isolate myself.

So where does the hypocrisy come into play?

I dated my ex for four years. It was great, and he was a fantastic
boyfriend. The reasons we broke up were just the “sum of its parts” sort of
thing—a bunch of little things that added up and made me realize that what I
wanted in life conflicted with what he did.

But, unfortunately, one of the main things came down to
fear. He never had an adventurous nature, and I wanted to. I did, in fact, but
it was often hard for me to take the first step, to take that risk, and to be
with someone who enabled me to keep hiding, I realized I would never be able to
overcome the safe-funk I had been in.

I was so irritated at the people around me who much preferred
to accept their problems than to change them. Some of my classmates would often
watch an issue evolving in front of them, but refused to act until it was too
late to change anything. Only then could they get mad. Then they’d complain.
They’d bitch and moan, but they would never act, never try to change anything.

After four years of dating, my ex still had the same
complaints, the same problems. At times with the same exact people. His friends
continued to screw him in the exact same manner for four years, and he had
never done anything to fix it.

We rarely fought, but when we did, I learned there was no
solution other than to not care. Or even if it had nothing to do with me, I
couldn’t help him when he was hurt. He, on some level, liked being miserable.
If I tried to fix the problem, he’d just seethe deeper into his mood. I often
had the thought, “You’re not even trying to
feel better.” I judged him for it. Anyone who didn’t try to make themselves
happy couldn’t be helped.

You see where I’m going with this.

For the last couple of years, I allowed my social anxiety to
control me. Now, I’ll be the first to slap any idiot who thinks social anxiety
is solved by the Power of Positive Thinking, but I will say this: When I try, I
can pass as relatively normal. When I try to function, I can.

It’s just so much easier not to bother.

I’ve been wanting to take more risks for the past few years.
I had all of these goals and ambitions that I refused to even actually
consider. They involved talking to people, making new friends, propositioning
strangers… phone calls. Delving into the unknown with little ability to predict
how it will turn out.

For the last few months, in which I was completely capable
of breaching out, getting out of dodge, and doing the things I always thought I
wanted to do, instead of acting, I just stopped fantasizing. My ambition
dropped the moment I didn’t have a distant deadline to protect me. I became
less productive than I have ever been since the age of twelve.

Now is the perfect time for me to make a decision. At the
end of November, I’ll have no job. I have been slowly weaning myself off of the
extra theatre work, so I’m under no obligation to any of the playhouses. I have
my cat, but no one else I have to take into consideration. My friends have all
moved away. I own no property or anything that requires maintenance. I am about
as free as I’ll ever get.

And I want to move. I want to get out of dodge, meet new
people, fresh faces. I want to take chase the things I care about. I want to
trust that I actually want what I want, and go back to the high school days
where I have no doubt I can get it.

I know that my biggest flaw is this fear, that any of the
failure I’ve had in the past year is due to this fear more than anything else.
Fear has made me make the worst decisions, prevented me from going after what I
wanted, made me refuse opportunities that I really wanted, and embarrassed me
more than anything else has.

I’m at a crossroads. I have to decide where I want to live,
what I want to do with my day job, what kind of lifestyle I expect to have, and
basically every other question you can have in your life. I am restricted to
nothing, the world is my oyster.

Friday, August 1, 2014

So for the last couple of weeks I’ve been looking around at
the stuff I can get rid of so I don’t have to pack it. It’s been a trying
experience. Canvasses? Too expensive. Fabric? Too pretty. Clothes? Ha. Video
games? DVDs? Not planning on paying for television, so that’s a big not gonna
happen. Furniture? Well, sure, I could go with a little living on the floor I
suppose, surrounded by piles of my crap.

But as I looked around at all my absolutely necessary junk
my eyes drop on an obvious demon in my path. My book case. Or should I say,
book cases.

They take up a lot of room. I’m a big tree killer, and I
love reading print books, and buying them rather than getting them from the
library. A part of that is me fighting for my fellow authors, but a bigger part
of that is I think they’re pretty, and looks always get me. I can’t pass a
mirror without losing half an hour out of my day.

As I glanced through the shelves, I realized that there’s a
lot that I’ve been packing around for the last few years and it’s just… not
really necessary.

I set out to rid myself of the slack. I removed of all the
books I’ve read and knew that I wasn’t going to read again, all the ones I thought
I should read, but really wasn’t going to happen, and put the books that I knew
and loved (or were just so damn attractive I couldn’t possibly dismiss them) aside in one remaining shelf to
keep.

But then I found myself with a problem. There, across my bed
and my cat, was a pile of questionables. They weren’t books I wanted to keep,
but they were ones that I wanted to read, and, by the means in which I read, I
really benefited from not having the mere two weeks a library would offer. I
owned them now, I should read them now. And then
get rid of them.

So my answer was simple. I’d read them all before I left, and
then I wouldn’t have to pack them with me. “Which books were they?” you yawn?
Oh, let me tell you.

1.
Game of Thrones.

What is it?

Fantasy novel, about 800 pages in length. Lots of death and
sex.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

It’s not
mine. The book belongs to my brother and needs to be returned. And I definitely
want to read it; I’ve gotten really into it. Plus, if I wait until post-move, I
will have forgotten everything and need to read the first 500 pages again and I might never get through it.

How far I’ve gotten:

Further
than half way.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

Game of
Thrones is told in multiple points of views, and some of the characters I just
can’t be forced to listen to. I’m reading along intently, devouring every word,
and then, BAM Caitlyn. Go die, Caitlyn. So I decide I’m done for the night, and
I continue to be done for several nights afterwards. And, this last month, I’ve
gotten a negative association with the series, and picking it up brings up bad
thoughts—it’s not a cheery book anyway.
So I’ve been kind of avoiding it.

2. The
Host

What is it?

Young adult, science fiction/romance novel. Aren’t they all?
Aliens burrow into everyone’s head save for the one girl who didn’t have enough
of a personality to get it taken away.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

Also not
mine. And as a fair-weather fan of Stephanie Meyer, I feel like once I get into
it, I would probably enjoy it. The parts I’ve read so far were fine. And
honestly, analyzing and picking apart Meyer’s works has always been a blast for
me. Mostly because everyone knows what you’re talking about and has an opinion
on it, which is rare in books.

How far I’ve gotten:

First
hundred pages.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

That’s the
thing. I don’t even know. I remember
thinking it was fine, and I got past my anti-commitment stretch, so I should
have finished it in a day and been done with it. But no. It didn’t bore the
hell out of me, but apparently, there wasn’t enough going on for me to keep
going with it.

3.
American Gods

What is it?

Neil Gaiman’s urban fantasy novel. Man gets released from
prison to lose everything he cares about and then… magic happens. That’s as far
as I’ve gotten.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

Actually, this
is a book that I kinda just want a reason to commit to. I love Neil Gaiman, and
people have boasted about this book, so I believe that if I can just devote
myself to it, I’ll probably like it. I doubt that I’ll be giving this copy up,
because it was given to me as the most romantic gesture I’ve ever gotten from a
guy trying to win me over. Nothing happened—his sentimentality was ruined by
the fact that he lived a thousand miles away meaning it was an attempt at a
quick lay, but I have to say that giving me a Neil Gaiman book is probably the
best way to almost get it.

How far I’ve gotten:

Fifty
pages.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

Don’t
really know what I’m hoping for. Shadow’s life sucks at this point in time, and
I don’t see it as getting any better. I know it will, and that it will involve
magic, but where I am, he’s just lost what’s important to him, won’t ever get
it back, and yet kinda just has to get over it. There’s not even horrible
things happening to make me want him to get back to the status quo.

4. Insurgent

What is it?

Sequel to Divergent,
a Young Adult dystopian novel. A girl lives in a society segregated by
personalities, but apparently she has more than one trait, which is just
unacceptable.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

Also not mine. And I read the first one,
I feel obliged to read the second one. Actually, when I finally got into Divergent, I did finish it in one day,
which is my main test to see how I like something. If I can’t put it down, then
there’s something there, whether I’m logically satisfied or not. I consider how
long it took me to get to the absorption point before I was engrossed, and I
figured it would be the same with the sequel. I’ll like it eventually.

How far I’ve gotten:

Zero pages.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

I love
Veronica Roth’s blog, and so take what I’m going to say in that vein, I also
didn’t really understand what made me be so engrossed. There wasn’t anything
about it that made me excited. I found out about the series via Goodreads
one-star reviews, and so already know how the trilogy ended. I don’t care too
much about the characters, and a big reason I think is simple existentialism.

5. The
Devil Wears Prada.

What is it?

Contemporary novel the movie was based on, but lacking the
character arch of said movie. (Not even kidding, the commentary told me they added her change in.) A
young idiot struggles trying to be competent in her first ever job, which is
the hardest job anyone will ever have ever.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

Not mine,
and I loved the movie. I also love
bitching about this book.

How far I’ve gotten:

One-third
through.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

The main
character is so stupid. I mean it. She’s a colossal idiot. And she’s not
supposed to be. I cannot stand her, and while I meet a lot of characters I find
dull, there’s not a great deal that I actually hate. She’s the winner.

6. The
Lies of Locke Lamora

What is it?

I guess I would classify it as a fantasy, but it’s not the
typical swords and dragons, and I’m not sure if there even is magic yet. Orphan
boy joins other orphan boys in dark, horrible world. I haven’t really gotten
that far.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

I read the
first couple of pages, and I loved it. I’ve read the bad reviews and I think
it’s going to be fantastic. It has the possibility of being a favorite book
that requires keeping, but that may be my wishful thinking, and I’d liked to
find out now if I should lug it around.

How far I’ve gotten:

Page, like,
five.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

Other books
took priority. The Lies of Locke Lamora
is great because it’s not dense or trying, but not simple and fluffy either.
Unfortunately, I tend to either go for really
simple or the damn hard books that I’ve been avoiding-for-years these days.
I don’t feel required to read it other than I want to, so I haven’t.

7. Crescendo

What is it?

Sequel to Young Adult romance novel, Hush, Hush. It’s about angels, and one who falls in love with a
human despite wanting to kill her.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

Loved the
second half of the first book, Hush, Hush.
Don’t judge me. This one is also borrowed from a friend, and I’m certainly will
not be paying for it after I leave. I also will not be seen checking it out
from the library. No, this shame is saved for blogging—but I trust it’s just
between us.

How far I’ve gotten:

Sample
chapters in the last book.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

So, I try
not to criticize bo—

Ahem. I
couldn’t even get that one out. I’m sorry.

I try not
to place absolute labels of quality on books because I like diversity, and
sometimes simple fluff is all I damn well want, and I know for a fact that, as
a writer, tapping into your inner desires like that is hard work that shouldn’t
be discouraged just because we prioritize philosophy over fantasy.

But after I
read a scene where class started, the characters talked for a few pages in real time and then class ended, I
couldn’t deny that that was a huge editing mistake, and I couldn’t trust it
again. Add that with the fact that I did not find Patch sexy at all in the
beginning, but actually wanted to kick his ass (and I like jackasses), I’m not entirely confident in the sequel, despite
having my hopes.

8. The
Name of the Wind

What is it?

Fantasy book following a great hero and how he became the
humble innkeeper he is today.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

My brother
owns it. I have heard so many people praising this book, telling me that, while
“there’s some boring parts in the middle,” it is amazing and their favorite
story ever. I feel like if I don’t read it now, I never will.

How far I’ve gotten:

First
hundred pages.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

I got
pretty far, but then I reached a point where I wasn’t sure what I was waiting
for. The storyline is deliberately vague about who the main character is, and
the questions raised are so unanswerable at this juncture, there’s not really a
point to think about it. It’s getting into world building and background story,
but the protagonist doesn’t really have anything he wants that I want too.

9. The
Mortal Instruments Series.

What is it?

Young Adult urban fantasy/romance books. A young girl finds out she’s actually a member
of a demonic fighting institution. Has a movie based on it.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

I’ve read
Cassandra Clare’s other books, The
Infernal Devices and I fell in love with them. I read the trilogy in three
days, only stopping to go borrow and then buy the next book. (I live in Wyoming
and “going to town” is a process, so it becomes a once a day trip, no matter
how exasperated you are.)

I bought
the first book of this series on my iPad, which adds to the necessity. I’ve
frickin’ paid for it, I guess I better read it. Especially because it’s the
virtual kind and I can’t even write it off as decoration. (Which, in hindsight,
may be what got me into this mess.) The second and third books, however, my
friend owns, and I’m not frickin’
paying for those. I think I’ll like it, but not enough to own it if I don’t
have to, or deal with the library.

How far I’ve gotten:

I don’t
know. Fifty pages?

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

Already saw
the movie. Liked it fine, but now I know the plot, and it’s not the kind that’s
really all that rereadable. Romance hasn’t started in yet. Don’t care yet.
Clary is an idiot in a generic sort of way, and I’m really struggling to find
the motivation.

10.
Prince of Thorns.

What is it?

Not really sure. Fantasy of some sort.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

I have it.
My brother said it was good. That’s all I know.

How far I’ve gotten:

NO WHERE.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

I have way
too many other books I’m not reading taking up all my effort.

11.
The Throne of Glass.

What is it?

I don’t know if it’s classified as Young Adult, but it
certainly reads like it. The greatest assassin ever is freed from jail and
brought to earn her freedom by challenging other criminals in a battle royale.
Or something.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

I, honest
to God, have not one single clue. It has a pretty cover. I mean, damn, that’s a
pretty cover, and I have been fooled into trying to convince myself that
something pretty will improve if I just commit more. It’s a curse.

How far I’ve gotten:

Far enough.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

It bites
like a rabid monkey. Yes, the bad reviews tried to warn me, but they’re always
so wrong.

I don’t
really want anything to happen yet. The main character doesn’t really want
anything to happen either. And, low and behold, nothing has happened.

I think the
moment that took the cake was, however, when she asked for some books to read.
Now, in Young Adult fiction making your character a bookworm is equivalent to
slapping a name tag with “COOL” written in bright red letters and leaving it at
that. But that doesn’t bother me as much as the snotty attitude towards certain
writing styles. Many Young Adult books enjoy raving about the classics and
hypocritically implying the sheer superiority of the “intellectual” based books
over the emotionally charged ones. Throne
of Glass does the opposite in which the two characters bond over the arrogance
of any complicated prose. Annnnd we’re done.

12.
Douglas Adams Biography.

What is it?

If that wasn’t self-explanatory, I don’t know what
self-explanatory means.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

I love
Douglas Adams, I love author’s biographies. But it’s big, and I don’t think I’m
ever going to read it again.

How far I’ve gotten:

First
couple of pages.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

Sloooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww
start. I know, a biography? Right? Feel free to be skeptical.

13.
The Night Circus.

What is it?

Dark Victorian fantasy in which two wizards pit their
children against each other, and I guess it all happens at a circus. Or
something.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

I was
really into it for a while. I see myself really into it again. It just requires
more effort than I’m putting in.

How far I’ve gotten:

Halfway?

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

It’s
another game of hating the characters we’re now suddenly following. Bratty
children, cold and personality-less socialites. Get back to the protagonists
please, before I brain myself with this book.

14.
Crossed.

What is it?

Sequel to Young Adult dystopian novel, Matched. The world is highly controlled, including choosing who you
are going to marry. The main character fell in love with another, and he got
taken away. Now she has to find him.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

The first
book, Matched, ended on a note that
really made me interested in the second book. I needed to see what would happen.

How far I’ve gotten:

Thirty
pages.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

What I
wanted to see happen? Hasn’t even really started yet. I don’t get to see the
two lovers together, and I think, if I remember right from the reviews, I’m not
going to see them together for a long time. I’m struggling to care.

15.
The Way of Kings.

What is it?

Fantasy book. Not really sure what it’s about yet.

Why I want to finish
it before I go:

My
brother’s, and I was really into what I had read so far.

How far I’ve gotten:

Couple of
chapters.

Why I haven’t read it
by now:

Way too
easy to put down and forget about.

So, there you have it. I have three months to get them done,
thousands of pages and tens of pounds later, I shall fill my head, lighten my
load, and not feel so damn guilty about being such a quitter. Pray for me.